


Swing Love

by rachel614 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy, Mebbe a teensy bit of sadness, slightly AU, soooo fluffy, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 08:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rachel614
Summary: Something about the tired look in her eyes made him swallow his retort, and instead he said sharply, “Show me.”Something lit in her eyes, and suddenly she didn’t seem quite so mousy anymore.——————————He always loved to dance.So did she.





	Swing Love

 

_“I love dancing. I’ve always loved it.”_

xXx

Sherlock was unhappy.

What, precisely, was the appeal of this? An extended period of what would ordinarily be deemed an entirely inappropriate level of physical contact with a more or less stranger, moving awkwardly back and forth to the rhythm of appalling sounds that could hardly be termed music. The waltzes would likely not be as bad, but he simply loathed the swing dances. Absurd that formal dancing was still a required physical education class in this day and age.

He scowled over the head of his partner, a small mousy girl who seemed as displeased as he was. He recognized her from his advanced chemistry course, though he wasn’t certain of her name. Something with an M. Meena? Mary?

With an abrupt sigh, his partner pulled away. “You’re doing it wrong,” she said. He drew back, bristling with indignation. Wrong? He never did things wrong. Certainly, his greatest strength was his intellect, but he’d never considered himself to be lacking physically.

“What do you know?” He snapped, expecting her to quail. She was such a quiet little thing—come to think of it, they’d shared physics last year too, but she’d hardly said a word the whole year.

She did indeed flush a bright red, but to his surprise refused to back down.

“I know that I’ve been dancing since I was a child,” she said, her voice quiet but somehow still with an edge. “My dad taught me, and I know what it’s like to be with a good dancer.” A shadow drew across her face, and he cast a practiced eye over her. _Dark pools under her eyes, slightly loose clothing; she’d lost weight recently. A repaired tear in her jumper, clearly sewn by an unpracticed hand: financial difficulties, and a mother either unwilling or incapable of stepping in. He could smell the lingering traces of antiseptic on her clothes, and her mismatched socks peeping from beneath her tired jeans indicated dressing hurriedly, and in the dark. Conclusion: father in hospital, likely dying; she regularly visits in the mornings before school._

 

Something about the tired look in her eyes made him swallow his retort, and instead he said sharply, “Show me.”

Something lit in her eyes, and suddenly she didn’t seem quite so mousy anymore.

 

“Here, pull against me,” she said, taking his hands up again. He obliged, increasing the pressure slowly, until she nodded. “Yes, like this. You need to have tension, see? When your arms are limp, your feet are doing all the work, and it’s boring and tires you out quickly. But when you’re pulling on your partner, you use each other’s momentum to swing back in towards each other. That’s why it’s called swing dancing. It’s just applied physics, really.”

His eyes widened as he understood. Of course. How _obvious_. At her encouraging nod, he began a basic step again, this time trying to keep the tension between them. A grin broke across his face as he pulled her towards him, their momentum working for them this time. Feeling daring, he lifted his arm for a turn, delighted by the way she spun where he wanted her. This was good; no, it was better than good. This was _wonderful._

He grinned at her as the song ended; she smiled back. He realized he’d never seen her smile, and the sight of it made his chest feel funny and his cheeks burn, a little. He mumbled something that might have been a thank you, and at the teacher’s command moved towards his next partner.

Maybe dancing had its good points, after all.

xXx

She didn’t come to chemistry class again.

He never did remember her name.

xXx

He was surprised when she chose a swing song for their wedding dance. Despite years of close proximity to him, she retained an unreasonable degree of romanticism, and he’d expected her to want the traditional waltz.

“I’m quite good at waltzing,” he told her. She smiled at him, eyes glinting with mischief.

“I am aware. John has regaled us with tales of your prowess.” He couldn’t quite prevent the the tinge of pink that stained his cheeks, and prudently decided to let the matter drop.

It wasn’t until the day itself—til the very end of the dance itself—that the penny dropped. He’d swept her and spun her across the dance floor, and as the last notes of the song faded he pulled her close and rested his forehead against hers.

“My father taught me to swing,” she murmured, through the sound of clapping. He squeezed her hands gently, offering comfort.

“I was taught by a dance partner of mine, who’d had enough of my ego and insisted I was doing it wrong,” he told her, smiling at the memory.

“I know,” she said. “Sherlock isn’t a very common name.” His eyes shot open, and he pulled his face away from hers, mouth slightly agape.

“You—you—“ he broke off, rendered speechless. She smiled at him.

“You’re quite excellent at tension, these days.” Sherlock could only stare at her, wonderingly.

After a long, long moment, he dropped her hands and, cradling her face, kissed her thoroughly—to the noisy delight of their audience. When he came up for air, he whispered in her ear, “I’ve always loved to dance. And it’s all because of _you_ , Molly Hooper. Molly _Holmes_.”

Later, she would tell him how her father had died that very night, how her broken hearted mother had uprooted their little family and moved them to another place, with cheaper houses and less memories. How the very first time he’d walked into her morgue she’d remembered dancing in his arms at seventeen, and began to dream of dancing in them again.

But now, at this moment, they spun away together into a new dance. A new life.

**Author's Note:**

> I based this story on the memory of a real conversation with a friend of mine. I was trying to teach him to swing dance; it was our fourth and last year at college (all the school dances were formal style, i.e. waltz, swing, lindy, salsa, etc.) and he’d never learned. He’s a very, very clever man, who’s quite sweet in an awkward nerdy sort of way. I’ll never forget the look of dawning comprehension on his face when I told him that it was just applied physics. All he had to do was put a little tension on my hands and use our momentum instead of fighting against it. I think he’d always thought of dancing as something mysterious and difficult; the kind of thing you needed to be athletic to do well at. When he connected what he was doing with his body to the principles of his beloved physics, he blossomed. He asked girl after girl to dance that night, and in the space of a few hours went from not knowing how to dance at all to becoming (if not an excellent) a thoroughly enjoyable dance partner. It was a joy to watch, and it amuses me to think of something similar happening to Sherlock.  
> As always, kudos and comments greatly appreciated ;)


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